She Asked
by madasmonty
Summary: Hal doesn't want to talk to Alex, but neither of them have much choice for conversation anymore, what with him being tied to a chair and her being dead... A series of 200 word drabbles set as Hal detoxes.
1. Chapter 1

"How old are you?" She asked.

"So old, that God has forgotten my name." He replied.

* * *

"Tell me about you and Cutler," She asked.

"There's nothing to tell." He replied.

"What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything. It wasn't me."

"Who was it then?"

"It's complicated."

"Isn't it always?"

"This time it's very complicated."

"You said you two used to be friends. Before this."

"Yes."

"And then you said you'd kill him."

"Yes."

"You're my friend."

"But you're already dead."

"So?"

"So, I can't kill you."

* * *

"What did it taste like?" She asked.

"What did what taste like?" He replied.

"Me."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't lie."

"If you don't want to hear lies, then don't talk to me."

"My options aren't exactly wide for conversations."

"Repeat the question?"

"What did my blood taste like?"

"Life. Death. Sadness."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"No. I hated it."

* * *

"What happens when you die?" She asked.

"I have no idea." He replied.

"Are you scared?"

"I'm indifferent."

"Do you believe in Hell?"

"I know it's waiting."

"But you're indifferent?"

"I also know I deserve it."

* * *

"Why did you save me?" He asked.

"I don't know." She replied.


	2. Chapter 2

When Hal read he adopted a look as if he was both judging every character in the book, and envying them at the same time. It was something that Alex hated, but couldn't help noticing. He stopped struggling and shouting when he read and, for a while, he was somewhere where she couldn't reach him. Somewhere that she couldn't follow.

He kept going back to the same books, she noticed. He simply rotated them and never requested new ones, though Tom went out enough for him to easily have bought some. She glanced inside as she tidied them for him, straightening them with a ruler as per his instructions. His notes were in beautiful copperplate pencil, tiny and hard to decipher, diagonally skating up and down the margins of each page, never overlapping to the typed prose.

She speculated on what drew him back to those large blocks of text, those tiny, black and white letters, again and again. What was he looking for with each repeated read? His notes were painfully neat, but impossible to understand, and Alex wondered what he was searching for inside those pages, what secrets he had found and noted down, that she couldn't discover.


	3. Chapter 3

"I used to live with a werewolf."

The speech was sudden. He hadn't spoken for several days, and Alex jumped in her seat. She'd been staring listlessly at the wall, but now she assumed he wanted a conversation. Better than the shouting he'd been doing for the last several hours.

"Oh?" She asked, keeping her tone midway between polite and interested. Anything could set him off, and she preferred this talkative Hal to the _other_ one. "Tell me about him?"

There was a pause. "We lived together for half a century. In a little barbershop, with a view. He had a room, where he could suffer his curse in peace." He seemed to quoting, and was smiling now. If she didn't know better she'd have said it was a fond smile.

"Did you kill him?" She asked.

He gave one small laugh now, as if the suggestion was ridiculous. Perhaps, to him, it was. "No. I felt remorse at his passing."

"You're having me on." She laughed a little at the absurdity of him.

Hal turned to look at her, finally, and his eyes were emptier than she had ever seen them.

"Of course I am, Alex," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

"I hate you so much."

"I know."

"Let me out of this fucking chair."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"I will rip your spine out through your mouth."

"Is that even physically possible?"

"Let me out of this chair and you'll find out."

"You can't kill me, I'm already dead."

"But there are worse things than death."

"Honestly, you're so stupid when you're like this."

"How dare you –"

"Try and think. Breathe. You're being irrational."

"Maybe because that's because I've been tied to a goddamn chair for a week."

"Two weeks."

"What?"

"It's been two weeks since we began your detox."

"Then give me a chance and let me out."

"What's the first thing you'll do when you get out?"

"I'll fucking murder that hound."

"Wrong answer. I told you that you were stupid when you're like this."

"Let me out."

"No."

"Let me out or I'll scream."

"Now you're just being childish."

"How dare you call me a child? I am an Old One."

"Just a title. You're still being a twat."

"When I get out of here you're going to be sorry."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"I'll give you a minute."

"Alex?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"I know."


	5. Chapter 5

She doesn't know he watches her when she's asleep.

As with all dead people, her chest still rises and falls in the parody of breathing. It's as if their lungs can't cope with the idea that they don't need oxygen. Hal is five hundred years old and he still breathes, even though he knows that he could live just as easily as if he didn't bother. He doesn't have to give the action much thought, it's automatic and pointless.

But on her it's beautiful. Her collarbone lifts and sinks in a slow rhythm. Her lips are parted slightly, and the skin on them is full and deep, ruby red.

He wants to sink his teeth into that skin and watch as tiny beads of blood well up for him to kiss away. He wants to lower his kisses and brush her skin with every rise of her chest, tracing a line down her neck and stopping at her artery. Blood isn't like breathing, it's not a habit, and he knows that he neck will be still, and her pulse will be non-existent. But he longs to open it all the same.

She wakes up and he doesn't say a word.


	6. Chapter 6

He doesn't know that she enjoys him being trapped in the chair, or he wouldn't speak or say a word.

She enjoys watching his muscles strain against the bonds, honed after centuries of hard labour and self-discipline. She enjoys the sight of his eyes darkening and tiny flecks of spit flying. She enjoys the sound of his plosives and end consonants, spoken so bluntly, and the quicker smoothness of his vowels. She enjoys seeing the shape his lips make when he forms the words and hisses or shouts them at her.

And sometimes his words give her a thrill, when he stops being wild and loud, and he speaks softly to her. The voice that must have been the last thing that so many girls heard – quiet, silky, calm. _Let me out of the chair, Alex. Let me out and I will show you the result of five hundred years of practice._ He's not being furious or tired or irritated, he's being worse than that. He's being charming, and he's had time to perfect his technique.

It's very difficult to resist. She's not sure if he could do anything to her, physically, but he makes it awfully tempting to try.


End file.
